Chapter 28: The Redoubt

"We need powder," said Lt. Foster, sitting astride a stool in his tent while one of the camp followers slept on his cot, curled like a cat. "Powder and shot, or lead at least. You and George go do a little scoutin'. Find us a poorly guarded supply somewhere nearby. Want'cha back here in five days. And no whoring, jus' do the job." He stood and unbuttoned his waistband. "What'cha waitin' for?" he yelled, turning the blanket back from the dozing woman who was as bare as the day she was born, which, judging from her rolls of suet, had been a while. She turned to glance at me, her black hair veiling her face.

George headed up the winding river where he had good contacts including a pair of randy cousins who worked in a tavern while I saddled my mare and rode toward New Brunswick where we knew a great deal of British material was usually stored. Coming down out of the hills, I was stuck by the number of abandoned farms, animal skeletons and burned buildings. The Hessians had obviously scoured the area, leaving behind little that was either valuable or useful.

I made a few tavern visits before easing into the town itself and quickly decided that the main storage area was much too heavily watched to attack. It looked like a whole regiment of grenadiers stomping around. One girl told me that she had heard about some sort of redoubt where supplies were kept, but she was not sure where it was. I gave her a crown and suggested she ask a few more questions.

"You need ought else?" she asked, playing with her corset strings and pouting nicely, her hip thrust out toward me.

"Later, maybe," I told her with a pat on her firm behind.

She sniffed and sauntered off, buttocks rolling from side to side like the hind end of a bullock. I went out looking for auxiliary supply dumps, something I had not heard about before. Some hours later, north of town, where the river makes a big looping turn and the South Branch joins, I discovered exactly the kind of place I was looking for. It was a small, log fort with a central bombproof or dugout that was sure to be where powder was stored.

It had been carefully built, complete with parapets, on a ridge line that looked down over the river, a popular fording place. They were working on improving the abattis. While I watched from the crotch of a leafy tree, I saw both empty supply wagons coming in from the countryside and kegs of powder being delivered from the south.

I rode back to the tavern, found the serving wench who had taken my crown and pulled her back into a dark corner. "Learn anything more?" I asked as I fondled her soft breast and unlaced her stays, holding her in place with my knee.

"What's it worth?" she asked, squirming but not really trying to leave.

"Nother crown, maybe," I whispered, getting her nipple between my thumb and forefinger and squeezing gently.

"Mebbe more," she said, pulling her loose corset higher. "You know the bend, up yonder?" She gestured, and I nibbled at her neck. She bit her lower lip and moaned invitingly. I was not dealing with any amateur.

"Um hm," I said, pulling up her skirt with one hand and unbuttoning my foreflap with the other. We wiggled deeper into the dark recess under the stairs, pawing each other.

"Not here," she rasped as I got between her legs and poked at her, my hands lifting her wide buttocks. Her legs rose to encircle my middle.

"I know the place," I said, holding her hips tightly and taking her roughly, quickly, easily as her legs clamped me hard. "Couple a miles north. Lift your legs."

"Oh, damn," she gasped, heaving on my spear and getting her knees above my hips. "Uh, they got loads of lead and powder up there, officer tole me, getting ready for what he called an expedition. Go easy, damn you, easy, easy." She bucked and ground into me.

I took her lips with mine and concentrated on what our bodies were doing until I felt her come, shaking and exhaling loudly, her mouth gaping wide, chin raised, body tense. I spurted, shuddered, withdrew, buttoned up, thanked the girl, gave her two crowns and left quickly. The whole interview might have taken five minutes.

I was back and reporting to my lieutenant early the next morning, having ridden all night. I told him about the fort or redoubt or supply cache or whatever it was across the Raritan.

"How many men?" he asked. The top of the frowzy head showing in his cot was reddish, and I wondered if I knew the girl that owned it. Fatigue made my mind wander. I showed him the place on the map and told him that I had seen only six or seven but guessed they probably had twice that number. I yawned and rubbed my eyes.

"How high's the stockade?" he asked, pushing his shirt into his breeches.

I told him and we talked some more. "Aw right," he said. "Good job, get some food and a fresh horse. We'll head out in an hour or so."

"I ain't slept," I said, feeling groggy, stumbling about.

"You can sleep in the saddle. Get moving."

So I did and by afternoon the lieutenant and five others, including me, were camped out on the lumpy ridge opposite the fort that held the ammunition we needed. The back gate was open, the sally port I expect they called it, and while there were two guards on the wall, nobody seemed very alert. I did notice that the Redcoats did all their smoking outside the walls. I curled up and slept, briefly.

"Might as well hit 'em now, while we've got some light," Foster said, kicking me awake. I stretched and rose, having trouble keeping my eyes open. "Whoa," he said as a string of five wagons came in view, all heavily loaded. "Well, ain't that nice a'them." Each wagon had a driver and an armed guard on it which made the odds a little longer, but having wagons loaded was helpful and the guards looked to be militia. I yawned, primed my piece and we began moving through the woods.

At first our attack went well. We got two men inside the walls before the British knew we were about and within a few minutes we had evened the manpower disparity although one of our men was down and not moving and there was some well-aimed firing coming from behind the blockhouse. Then all hell broke loose. Burning powder or a pan flash had started a fire in the weeds by the log wall and it quickly spread toward the sod-covered magazine and the wagons with their loads of powder kegs.

I did not wait. I ran, yelling for my friends and comrades to get out. I had almost reached the treeline when the first explosion shook the ground and tossed me heels over head into the underbrush. I stayed low and covered my head as debris rained down. Two more, even bigger blasts followed, tossing parts of men, mules and heavy logs into the sky. A fourth explosion sounded muffled but resulted in a cloud of dirt and logs being thrown up. The small fort had almost disappeared.